by Dudley Pope
Being a Catholic, Brookland began muttering aloud a hurried prayer but Maxton, failing to catch the words, suddenly lunged down to warn him to be silent. Mistaking the gesture Brookland, thinking he was within a second of being murdered, shut his eyes and began whimpering like a child, calling to all me saints he could remember.
There was no pain but he felt his body moving through the air and marvelled death was so painless. The marvelling was short-lived: Rossi and Maxton had flung him so far into the breadroom he fell face downwards on to Dyson, whose left foot caught him in the solar plexus so that for several moments he wheezed painfully, fighting to get his breath.
The door shut and it was dark again.
At that moment Dyson recovered consciousness.
'So 'dp me,' he groaned, 'what the 'ell's going on? Who's 'ere?'
Harris answered.
'Arris? You all right?'
'Yes, but I dunk Brooky's in a bad way.'
'Must be 'im on top o' me an' bleeding like a stuck pig: I can't lift 'im orf.'
'Slide out from under then,' Harris growled unsympathetically, and crawled towards them.
'This you or Brooky?'
'Me—Brooky's just 'ere. 'E's bleeding from the shoulder. Hold 'ard a minute, I've found the wound... No, it's nothing. Just a shallow dig. 'Ere, Brooky...'
He shook the man who, having regained his breath, was sobbing again. 'Brooky, pull yourself together. What 'appened?'
'They grabbed me. Stabbed me. Gawd, ten or twenty times from the feel of it. I'm bleeding ter death.'
Two pair of hands felt all over his body.
'No you're not,' Harris said crisply, 'just a cut in the shoulder. Who did it?'
'That dago and the nigger. You?'
'Same. What about you, Slushy?'
'They caught me, too.'
'Where the hell did you get to?' Harris demanded. 'You just left the mess and went forward. We searched everywhere; then the watch changed and we had to get to our stations.'
'I just went up on deck to get a bit o' dean air,' Dyson said sourly. 'You lot were making me sick.'
'Well, what happened?'
'Those two jumped on me as soon as I got on deck.'
'Did you see Mr Ramage or Mr Southwick? They part of it?'
'Not so far as I know,' Dyson said.
'I Didn't see them either: just the dago and me West Indian,' Brookland added.
Harris was silent a few moments, then said: 'What the hell can they be up to? Good gawd—you don't reckon the Livelies are mutinying, do you? Why, those sons of bitches might be trying to carry the ship into a French port. Quick, we must warn the captain!'
'Warn him my bare backside,' Dyson said viciously. They can kill him for all I care. They've been braggin' about him long enough. I'm sick of the sound of his bleedin' name!'
'Use your brain, you fool,' Harris said urgently. 'If they carry this ship to a French port it'll mean we'll be prisoners. The Frogs won't encourage mutineers—the idea might spread! Want to rot in a French jail for the rest of your life?'
'Sink me!' Dyson exclaimed. 'Hadn't thought of------'
At that moment they heard the key turn, and as the door opened they saw Rossi holding a lantern and, framed in the doorway, outlined by the light, was Jackson, a belaying pin in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other.
Normally Jackson would never stand out in a crowd. His face was thin, but because Rossi was holding the lantern low the shadows from the jawbone and cheeks made it look cadaverous and menacing. And now, as he stood glaring down at the three men lying on the bags of bread, he seemed to them to be emitting a cold anger, like a full moon glimpsed through lowering black storm clouds.
Harris glanced from the belaying pin to the rum bottle and back again, and Was frightened. Then both Dyson and Brookland began whimpering as they thought they'd guessed their fate: that Jackson was going to get drunk, and while he drank, he was going to amuse himself by beating them to death with the belaying pin for trying to spoil his plans.
Jackson, seeing three pairs of terrified eyes glancing from his left hand to his right, suddenly read their thoughts and almost laughed. Instead, to mask any twitch of a mouth hard put to restrain a grin, he motioned Rossi and Maxton into the breadroom and then looked out through the door.
'Staff—come on down and look at our three choirboys!'
A few moments later Stafford stepped into the room and shut the door.
'My, my! Wot 'ave you been doin', Brooky? You're all covered in Wood. Not yor blood, I 'ope? And bruvver 'Arris, the edjicated able seaman. Well, and Slushy Dyson! What you all doin' 'ere? Not robbin' the ship's company of their bread, I 'ope?'
He turned to Jackson and said archly: 'Jacko, you know what I suspect?'
The American shook his head 'I fink they was—oh, dear me, that the wicked word should ever 'ave to pass me lips ... But Jacko, the truth must be told: I fink they was gambling...' 'No!' exclaimed Jackson, falling in with Stafford's serious manner. 'Not that, surely?'
Rossi shook the lantern. 'Not the gambling? Accidente! Gambling in one of me King's ships! What would His Royal Majesty say to that!'
'Nah,' Stafford said with a sudden harshness that startled the three men on the bread bags. 'Nah, not gamblin' in one of the King's ships, Rossi; gamblin' wiv one of the King's ships.'
'That's true,' Jackson said. 'Hold the lantern up a bit, Rossi,' he added, as he was drawling his words. 'Bit more— that's it. Let's have a good last look at them.'
By now Maxton too had caught en to the by-play and was tossing his knife from one hand to the ether.
'"Dust to dust and Slushy to slush",' he intoned in his deep, rich voice.
Stafford held up his hands. 'Nah, nah, Maxie, don't be blasphemious, and anyway, Slushy's my bird.'
'Oh no he's not: I want him.'
'Well, yer can't 'ave 'im, so there. Maxie! Take yer pick from the uvvers. What's wrong with Brooky?'
'Somebody's already started on him: he's second-hand. I want a new one.'
''Arris, then. Won't 'e do?'
Stafford's voice was wheedling.
'Oh all right,' Maxton said ungraciously. 'You're picking on me just because I'm not a white gennelman: I'm just a coloured fellah so I have to make do with what's left.'
'Steady men,' Jackson interposed, knowing the three victims believed every word. 'There's plenty more of them; more than a couple of dozen left to share between us.'
Stafford, quick to spot Jackson had accidentally revealed their weakness, said, 'But that's only just one Triton for each ex-Kathleen, Jacko.'
'No,' Jackson said smoothly, 'but some of the lads will swap a Triton for a tot, I'm sure.'
Brookland yelped as Harris suddenly jumped up. He was hardly on his feet before Maxton's knife was an inch from his throat and he found himself looking into a grinning, shiny brown face, the eyes sparkling but bloodshot Harris looked desperately at the American.
'Jackson, for God's sake, you've got it all wrong! What you're doing is crazy!'
Jackson managed to hide his surprise. 'Crazy? Maybe it's' not in the Articles of War, but it's not crazy 1'
'But you'll never get away with mutiny 1'
'Sit down or Maxton'll slit your windpipe.'
It gave Jackson a moment to think, but nothing came.
Harris sat down, gabbling almost incoherently.
'So help me, Jackson, it's mutiny! Rising against the captain and taking the ship into a French port—what else do you call that? What d'you think the French'll do? They won't give you a big sack of golden lotas as a reward: they daren't—else every ship in the French Fleet would mutiny! Don't you see that, you crazy oaf?'
For a moment Jackson felt real fear: fear that he had made a complete mistake. Then he thought he began to understand Harris's words. He wasn't sure of the details, but Dyson's expression made him wonder; and Brookland's, too.
Both of them should have been nodding, even shouting, to back up what Harris just said—if they ag
reed with him and were against a mutiny. Instead, they were lying there sullen and silent. Either they disagreed or they didn't care. He decided to back his own guess.
'Maxie,' he said pointing at Harris, 'this man's guilty of disrespect. Just take him outside for a few minutes will you?'
As soon as me door shut behind them, Jackson suddenly stepped over and seized Dyson. Hauling him to his feet, he slapped him hard across the face, jabbing his knee into his groin before letting him collapse to the deck.
The attack was so sudden that Rossi, momentarily thinking Dyson had made the first move, crouched with his knife ready.
Dyson, lying curled up like a whipped dog cowering in a corner, stared up at Jackson.
'Get up!' me American snapped.
'Not bloody likely; I'm staying 'ere. You wouldn't hit a man when he's down.'
'Don't be too sure.'
With that, Jackson kicked him in the ribs. It wasn't a hard kick, but there was very little flesh on Dyson's bones, and he staggered to his feet.
'What's it all about?' he gasped 'Why pick on me?'
'Dyson, you are going to talk to me. A nice friendly little chat. You're going to tell me part of your life story—beginning from the minute I came on board with the rest of the Livelies.'
'Oh no, I'm not!'
Jackson held out first the nun bottle and then the belaying pin.
'Like a drink, Dyson?'
The cook's mate shook his head.
'I should, Dyson. It helps with the pain.'
'Haven't got any pain,' the man said, like a sulky child.
'You haven't—yet.'
Jackson's drawl began to sound like the teeth of a saw dragged across metal.
'Not yet, Dyson. But in the next hour, you greasy little runt, you're going to have so much pain you're going to be begging me to kill you off to put you out of your misery.'
'But why pick on me,' Dyson whined. 'It was Brooky— cut 'im up instead. Brooky started it all. Yes'—he seized at the idea—''e's your man, not me!'
Jackson paused. Brookland? He was sure Dyson hadn't suddenly named the foretopman to protect Harris: he was so frightened it was much more likely he'd name the real leader to save his own skin. But where did Harris fit in? Why was Harris yapping about the dangers of mutiny— Harris of all people?
Well, if Brookland was the ringleader he wouldn't reveal anything that'd incriminate himself, and anything Harris had to say was likely to confuse the situation even more. No, Dyson was the man to tell the tale.
'Dyson, my greasy little friend, it doesn't matter who we start with because you're all going the same way home. So brace up that tongue of yours and get under way.'
The man wiped his brow. Already white-faced, his skin now seemed sweat-sodden and turning grey. Glancing up, he saw the American's eyes, began to say something and then held his hands out helplessly and looked down again.
Jackson said, 'Rosey, put the lantern over there.'
Dyson watched the Italian take a couple of paces to the corner, put down the lantern, and return to face Jackson, who said in an off-hand tone:
'Rosey, just cut off the top joint of his right index finger.'
Dyson gave a little scream and sat on his hands as Rossi turned towards him, In the moment's silence that followed, Jackson said:
'Wait a second...'
He held out his own left hand and with the right index finger touched each joint '... That's fourteen chops for each hand. I say, Rosey, that's twenty-eight and'—he glanced down at his bare feet —'about ten for each foot. Forty-eight: it's going to take time. You'd better give him a drink first. Change your mind, Slushy?'
But the man had fainted. Jackson went to the door and called to Maxton.
'Bring Harris back in here, Maxie, and take out Brook-land.'
As he waited, Jackson glanced over at the bloodstained top-man. There was fear in his eyes: bottomless fear, the kind of fear found only in a real coward, for it had paralysed him. He could no longer move a muscle even to save his life.
Maxton had to drag him out of the tiny room and Jackson waved Harris over to where he had originally been sitting on bread bags, and prodded Dyson, who was beginning to stir, with his foot As soon as he could see Dyson had recovered sufficiently to know what was happening round him, he said to Harris:
'I've brought you in to watch a cook's mate being butchered. Should be interesting. Think of all the chickens whose necks he's wrung. All those pigs and cows he's slaughtered and cut up...'
Since another of a cook's mate's duties was to act as slaughterer of a ship's livestock, the irony of the remark was not lost on Harris who began to say something, but Jackson held up his hand.
'Your turn for a farewell speech will come, Harris. Until then, one word out of you and I'll let Maxie get to work. Now, Dyson, you feeling better?'
Dyson nodded, then shook his head violently. Too violently, in fact, because he had to dose his eyes as the cabin began to spin. Jackson hoisted him to his feet and flung him back so he was sprawled across the bread beside Harris, but with his back to him.
'As you seem to be a bit squeamish, Dyson, HI give you one more chance to start telling your tale. Otherwise Rosey begins to chop.'
The cook's mate glared at him and muttered a filthy oath. Jackson motioned to Rossi but before the Italian could step forward Dyson held up both hands, as if to ward him off, and whined, 'All right, all right, give me time!'
He took a few deep breaths and, staring down at the deck, said:
'Well, at Spithead we Tritons was just like all the rest of the Fleet. Yes, we'd mutinied because of conditions—and the Lively did the same.
'Then half the Tritons get sent to the Lively and you lot are transferred. Well, that didn't mean nuthin' to us because the Fleet's working together. Then that Mr Southwick comes out. All right, we let him on board—not many ships would 'ave allowed that, and you know it, but 'e seemed an 'armless old coot "That was our mistake, because next day along comes Mr Ramage. Well, we still didn't suspect nothin'. We'd 'card about him and the Kathleen at Cape St Vincent and reckoned the Admirality had given 'im command of the Triton as a sort o' reward.
'The next bit you know: 'e tells us to weigh and we won't —none o' the rest of the Fleet would 'ave done, an' you know it. So 'e suddenly cuts the cable and we 'ave to make sail to keep off that shoal. Well, that wasn't fair: 'e 'ad no right to risk drownding the lot of us. When we found out we're supposed to be bound for a long voyage, we decided the best" thing to do was to take the ship back to Spit'ead and be along with our mates in the Fleet'
Jackson nodded, as if waiting for him to continue.
'Well, that's all mere is to it'
'No, it's not—let's have the whole story, Dyson. Did everyone in the ship agree with you?'
'Well, not quite everyone. You, Rossi, Stafford, Evans, Fuller, that West Indian fellow—'course you wouldn't 'ave done: that's why you weren't told about it.'
'And the rest from the Lively—were they asked?'
'Not all of 'em, no,' Dyson admitted.
'Any of them? Even one man?'
Dyson shifted uneasily. 'Well, they wouldn't 'ave tried to stop us.'
'How did you word the question?'
'Just asked 'em.'
'You didn't say something like, "If you won't join us, just keep out of the way—or you'll get knifed in your hammocks!"?'
'Well, we 'ad to protect ourselves in case any of them went running to the captain. Stands to reason,' Dyson said defiantly.
'So you threatened to murder your shipmates in their hammocks if they stayed loyal to their captain—a captain who's the finest in the service—and refused to mutiny?'
Dyson said nothing and Jackson suddenly wheeled on Harris.
'You knew better. You're educated, not an ignorant peasant like Dyson. Why did you plan all this?'
The suddenness of the attack had just the effect Jackson hoped.
'I didn't, you damned fool! I was trying to stop them. I...
'Go on, Harris.'
'I've nothing to say. Except you're worse. You shouldn't talk about loyalty—Mr Ramage's a stranger to us. You lot are supposed to be the ones who fought alongside him But what are you doing now? Mutinying and taking the ship over to the French!'
The man made no attempt to hide his contempt 'You're worse than mutineers; you're a bunch of traitors —traitors to your country and, what's worse, traitors to the man who trusted you. A good man: a man who can understand another man.'
Although Jackson did not know what Harris meant by me last few words, he'd at last got at the truth of it. Just a few more details to fill in the gaps.
'Dyson, you're a dead fish, but I'll give you a choice. I'll have you killed quickly and painlessly if you answer two questions truthfully. If you don't, or if you lie, you'll start dying in a couple of minutes and Rossi and Maxton'll be finishing you off at Sundown tomorrow.' 'What d'you want ter know?' Dyson croaked.
'Who were the real ringleaders of this mutiny?'
'Brookland's the ringleader. He thought of it first Oh, what's the good, Harris'll split on me, and I might as well get the credit mat's due. Brookland thought of it, yes; but I was the brains. I, the one and only Slushy Dyson, who can't read nor write did the planning. Brookland couldn't plan how to divide fifty-eight pieces of salt beef into fifty-eight mess bags.'
Jackson nodded.
'Second question. Are there any others you could call ringleaders? No, put it another way: if you and Brookland are out of the way, will there still be a mutiny in the Triton?' 'Not on your life,' Dyson said contemptuously. 'Not a chance. Sheep they are; worse than sheep. You could let Brookland go free, you lot could swim to the shore, and there still wouldn't be a mutiny without me to lead it.'
'You're a clever fellow, Dyson.'
'No, not clever. Just sick of salt beef and salt pork in port when we could 'ave fresh meat and fresh vegetables. Just sick of spending years in a ship and never a day's leave. I ain't seen me wife fer three years. There's four kids I 'aven't seen fer three years—and one kid I ain't never seen. He was born a fortnight after the press gang caught me.